seemed unusually irascible. Charley's face showed no surprise, but he
looked inquiringly at the Cure.

"If they wish to be measured for uniforms--or manners--I will see them at
my shop," he said.

The Seigneur chuckled. Charley stepped again towards the door. The two
constables stood before it. Again he turned inquiringly, this time
towards the Cure. The Cure did not speak.

"It is you we wish to see, tailor," said the Abbe Rossignol.

Soft-tongued irony leaped to Charley's lips: "Have I, then, the honour
of including Monsieur among my customers? I cannot recall Monsieur's
figure. I think I should not have forgotten it."

It was now the old Charley Steele, with the new body, the new spirit, but
with the old skilful mind, aggravatingly polite, non-intime--the
intolerant face of this father of souls irritated him.

"I never forget a figure which has idiosyncrasy," he added, with a bland
eye wandering over the priest's gaunt form. It was his old way to strike
first and heal after--"a kick and a lick," as old Paddy Wier, whom he
once saved from prison, said of him. It was like bygone years of another
life to appear in defence when the law was tightening round a victim.
The secret spring had been touched, the ancient machinery of his mind
was working almost automatically.

The illusion was considerable, for the Seigneur had taken the only arm-
chair in the room, a little apart, as it were, filling the place of